


Waste not, Want not

by Thefacelesswriter



Category: Filthly Frank - Fandom, Internet Personalities, Max/Ian, Maxmoefoe - Fandom, The Filthy Frank Show, Video Blogging RPF, idubbbz - Fandom
Genre: Crossdressing, Dialogue for days, Feminisation, M/M, Slurs, Tennessee Fire, clothing fetish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 08:53:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefacelesswriter/pseuds/Thefacelesswriter
Summary: The night hadn't been on Ian's mind for awhile. The memory had been content to fall into mundanity when it wasn't been used to jack off to. He’d simply categorised the event as something that happened on the Australia trip: driving on the wrong side of the road, eating Tim Tams, filming the Mario video, watching Max being sucked off while being called a dirty girlSequel to Questionable Darkness, set a year in the future in an AU in which nothing really did change.





	1. Fighting with Tennessee Fire

**Author's Note:**

> So there's a Muppets tag but the Cancer Crew tag is essentially extinct? Unacceptable. I'm dragging the fandom out of its long buried grave. This is essentially a sequel to Questionable Darkness, an equally sinful dumpster fire you can find on my profile. I'd recommend reading it first to full understand this chapter. This'll be primarily an Ian/Max story for the first few chapters, however if anyone is really aching for the terrible trio to get back together then I might try and incorporate that. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented on the previous story. Even if I don't respond sometimes I read every single comment and appreciate each one. They're definitely what got me off my ass and motivated to put up this chapter. (Also apologies if the formatting is fucked: I've been on this site for years and still haven't worked it out because I'm U S E L E S S). 
> 
> As always, I emphasise that this story is entirely a work of fiction and that the characters in it are fictional representations of real people. Just because the characters are fucking, doesn't mean the people do. Please enjoy.

Max was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, hunched far enough over the laptop that his hair occasionally brushed over the grubby, broken keyboard. Somewhere along the line, the E key had become faulty and -undoubtedly- been ripped off by Max and was no doubt lost in the mess of what he called a collection room. He wasn’t breathing so rapidly now; the panic had faded into a silent rage that fuelled the to-and-fro rocking as he held his finger steadily on the power button. Ian sat in the space between the door frame. He had watched the scene unfold without comment. 

“No no no no no fuck no you have got to be _kidding _me! Fuck!” Max slammed his fist on the carpet. He was probably avoiding doing the same to the laptop. “Fuck fuck fuck no this cannot be happening.” Max turned his attention to Ian for the first time since the crisis began. His eyes were tired, glassy with tears of frustration. He held his hands up in defeat, letting them slap to his sides. “It’s fucked, dude.”__

____

“Unfixable?”

“You’ve just seen me try fucking everything for the last two hours. You think it’s fucked, Ian?!” Max snapped, groaning into his hands. Ian was still holding a faded towel in preparation for a shower he’d never had. For two hours he’d been hovering somewhat purposelessly in the doorway, unable to offer technical advice that Max didn’t already know. Max returned to pulling at his hair, first away from his face and then in all directions. “Fuck, dude, there’s so much footage for the Pokémon channel and just so much other work that’s gone down the fucking toilet. I mean there’s stuff backed up, but it’s not enough. It’s not everything from the last few days. Why didn’t I back shit up hourly? Fuck!”  


“Nobody backs shit up hourly”  


“You do, you cunt.” That was right, Ian did. He, unlike Max, wasn’t a dumb shit. Though cockiness was hard to maintain when Max was scrubbing fiercely at his eyes. The laptop has simply died. It wasn’t really Max’s fault.  


“Maybe we can swap over the battery again. We could incorporate my laptop somehow” Ian offered.  


“Nah, just leave this piece of shit.” Max kicked the flimsy plastic body with his foot, unable to keep the agitation contained. “Just… I want to do some shots. Like, I need to fuckin’ forget about this or I might punch a window out.”  


“You’ll probably punch out a window if you do drink.”  


“Or I can kill myself if I stay sober. I just need to not be in this situation right now. I mean, you don’t have to drink, but I’d like it if you did.” Max had fallen backwards into the towers of Pokémon cards and plastic sleeves, now a puddle of unsorted, indistinguishable paraphernalia. Ian was well aware of the several misfortunes that had recently come Max’s way. This was no doubt a shining turd atop a pile of shit.  


“Yeah, that sounds reasonable. I’ll join you” Ian retorted. He started to rise from his place, feeling the pins and needles in his right thigh. “Do you wanna drink anything in particular, or should I just bring floor cleaner and methadone?”  


“Anything from the alcohol cupboard that’s more than half full” Max called weakly from the floor. “Don’t even bother about shot glasses, Ian. It’ll be just more shit to clean”  


The alcohol cupboard was distinguishable from the broken hinges that made the door sag and the undeniable smell of something chemical. It was a mismatched congregation of Mount Gay gin and half-finished Bowler’s Run. After so many years Ian had become well acquainted with the cupboard, reaching without hesitation beyond the first layer of bottles and to the back of the cupboard. He was 80% certain Chad had left behind his unopened Tennessee Fire at the last piss-up. If he had, he’d have hidden it at the back, predicting Max to get distracted at the first few bottles and never looking further. Sure enough, Ian’s hand made contact with a thick glass neck. He pulled. At the sight of a red label with gold lettering, Ian pulled harder, knocking another bottle onto the floor that begun to spill freely. He threw a soiled tea towel on the puddle and left it be. There would always be tomorrow to clean. It had always felt like time spent alone in Max’s house was time wasted. Ian returned to the office to find Max flicking an assortment of energy cards across the room.  


“Smashing some energy cards there?”  


“Yeah, they’ll live. Or won’t. What did you get?”  


“A bit of the ol’ Jack.” Ian revealed the bottle’s label from behind his arm. “Tennessee Fire Jack.” Max released a moan of appreciation, already reaching for the bottle. It was a noise that triggered a sense recognition in Ian. He’d heard a similar moan before, though obviously not the same. That had been almost a year ago now, though it felt like longer.  


“Jesus, you’re a fucking saint. I thought Chad took this with him. Pass over the lifeblood.” Ian handed the bottle over and Max hastily made work of it, tearing away the seal with his teeth.  


“Saint Edups, always bringing the goods” Ian muttered stupidly. This made Max snicker against the rim of the bottle and break into a grin, saying a quick ‘shut the fuck up’ through his giggling.  


“You know, you can always use my laptop while I’m here. For Youtube and that trash. Just don’t download fucking lesbian skat porn and break mine too.”  


“Fuck off, cunt. I didn’t even do anything. It somehow shat itself between this morning and two hours again. But I really don’t wanna talk about that right now. It’s in the past. I am done with it. Bottoms up, boys!” Only when Max had proceeded to take a sloppy shot did Ian think to wonder whether he should’ve scavenged around for some apple juice, or ginger ale, or any kind of mixer. It felt far too likely that things would get relatively hectic relatively soon, especially if Max was drinking and Ian continued to goad him. He was already onto his second shot.  


“Here.” Max was offering him the bottle and Ian accepted without question. He liked to think of himself as someone who willingly made bad decisions every once in a while. It was like the slow ascent of a roller-coaster up the first drop, a drop that always felt like the steepest. Nerves were inevitable but stopping because of that was ridiculous. It was best to ride through the hesitation and hold on tightly, hoping no vomit was involved (though Max was drinking, so vomit was more than likely).  


The cinnamon seared through Ian’s nose and made his eyes water, with the alcohol’s sharp sting leaving him gasping. Of course Max laughed at him. Ian laughed too.  


“Strong shit” Ian said weakly.  


“Or maybe you’re just a pussy” Max grinned, taking another shot simply to be cocky.  


Ian watched his friend’s tongue run around the rim of the bottle, catching the loose drops as if they tasted anywhere near good. He’d fucked that tongue with his own, felt it run wild in his mouth as George sucked Max’s dick. That night hadn’t been on his mind for a while. The memory had been content to fall into mundanity. He’d simply categorised it as something that happened on the Australia trip: driving on the wrong side of the road, eating Tim Tams, filming the Mario video, watching Max being sucked off while being called a dirty girl. Though now, watching the same man who’d lost his masculinity in the folds of a dirty satin dress lick whisky from his fingers, Ian could admit he was certainly thinking about it.  


“The fuck you lookin’ at?” A Pokémon card sailed past Ian’s head and was lost in the debris.  


“Looking at you, retard. You can't even drink like a normal person. Now stop hogging the bottle”  


Between passing the bottle back and forth, the conversation of meaningless insults eventually wandered to videos, as it always did. Ian spent a few futile moments looking for his phone in the clutter around him before giving up. He’d found himself at a point of drunk in which time became elastic, though Max tended to gobble away the sense of time with his nonsensical talk of upcoming projects. He’d taken to the strategy that whatever stuck to the metaphorical wall was worth filming.  


“What about… what about we get George, and fucking put him in a dryer yeah?”  


“People go to court for that kinda shit.” Despite his horrified tone, Ian’s laugh carried over in his words.  


“Yeah, if you do it to kids. George can consent, sign a paper and everything. We could put him in like a… a, I dunno, a sleeping bag and then chuck him in the dryer.” Max waved the whisky bottle in his direction. Ian reached for it, gulped down a piteous dribble, and passed it back. “Holy shit, we’ve drank a fucking lot.” Max was shaking the considerably emptier bottle. “What’s it been. Like, an hour? Or two?” Ian had taken to watching Max gradually reclining in the mess. His hair has become close to a rat’s nest of brown curls, and he’d shed his shirt for one reason or another. With a bare chest, Ian could see a scar below his rib cage. Kids like Max had a lot of scars.  


“You checkin’ me out?” Max seemed to try and point the bottle in Ian’s direction but in drunken sluggishness let the arm fall limp. “You’ve been looking at me all night. I’ve seen you, ya filthy pervert.”  


“I’m just thinking about the trip last year. Your torso just happens to be in the fucking way of my deliberation.”  


“Yeah? What about the old trip?” Max asked, eyes downcast on the label of the bottle he’d begun to toy with, and Ian knew immediately that something had changed. His friend had ignored the insult but honed in on the fact, aiming for an air of disinterest. Ian took the bottle but made certain not to drink from it.  


“Do you remember much of it? You were fucking wasted for a good majority.”  


“Yeah. I drink but I’m not an absolute piss-head. I have the ability to remember my friend’s first trip to Australia. It was a really great time.”  


“So, what do you remember then?” 

"Lots of shit." 

"Give me one example" So Max began to recount the time they broke into his primary school and (accidentally) broken a window along the way. Though Ian knew it all to be truth -after all he'd been there- he wanted to call bullshit. The exaggerated enthusiasm of his storytelling didn’t match the look in his eyes.  


“And what about the nights?” Ian interrupted without consideration of Max's recollection. He took a shot for good measure, no longer feeling the powerful sting under his drunkenness.  


“What _about _the nights? I was just telling you about a night.” The confidence didn't come through as strongly as Max surely wanted.__

__"What about the night?"_ _

__" _What _night? The night you started acting like a fuck stick? Because that's tonight." Max reached for the bottle but Ian pulled it out of his grasp, watching his amusement transcend into confusion.  
___ _

___“You really gonna bullshit me now? Come on, Max.” Max had no choice but to finally meet Ian’s gaze. Ian knew that Max knew: of course he hadn’t fucking forgotten. There was a flush growing around the apples of his cheeks and a vulnerability in his eyes that was rare and enthralling, though the glare he wore was ferocious. Ian felt like a miner whose pick had struck the oil. “You remember, right? The night?” At long last, Max responded.  
_ _ _

___“Yeah, I remember the night. Now pass me the fucking bottle you fucking cunt.” Max snarled, and Ian complied. His blush grew deeper and he took a shot that could only be called excessive, the half that missed his lips dribbling down his chest. The remaining whisky sloshed piteously at the bottom of the bottle.  
_ _ _

___“You embarrassed about it?” Ian asked.  
_ _ _

___“No…” Now Max sounded like a pouting child. He’d taken to pulling away the label of the bottle in messy, aggressive strips.  
_ _ _

___“Did it feel good?” Max stayed silent, so Ian waited. He only now noticed the gentle pattering on the window that was a light shower.  
_ _ _

___“I mean,” Max started, sounding hoarse, “yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. The small fragments of paper still clinging to his fingers stuck there instead. “Yeah it did.”  
_ _ _

___"That's hot" said Ian, though that seemed to be an understatement to his hard cock. Max made a quiet 'Mm' in response._ _ _

___“Bet you didn’t send that dress to charity after though, did you?” Ian felt unable to hold his tongue and unwilling to try. Nor did he wait for Max to try and respond. “Bet you kept it somewhere where you can look at it once in awhile and pull one off to it.” With a surely unintentional and startled noise, Max looked to him. His eyes had grown glassy and desperate. Maybe he wanted Ian to shut the fuck up, though his words felt unstoppable. “Probably smells like your cunt.”  
_ _ _

___It was filthy and vile and something that had Max clamping his teeth onto his lip and shutting his legs as if it were a physical blow. Any composure he'd been attempting to uphold fell away in large pieces.  
_ _ _

___“Ian” Max whined.  
_ _ _

___“Maxime…” The single word was akin to a chemical reaction of which its effects were immediate. Here was the Max he’d held in the dark a year past, so vulnerable in his pleasure that he trembled as if afraid. It filled Ian’s chest so full of god knows what that he felt he could cry. Ian crossed the small space between them and kicked the bottle aside, its purpose of fucking them up long since completed. His hands found Max’s wrists so naturally he’d have thought they’d never left. And like paper Max crumbled between them, falling back into the stacks of cards and pulling Ian with him. “You’ve been such a good girl. Bet nobody got to see you since me and George had our way with you” he whispered, the words tickling Max’s burning cheeks. Max nodded shamefully, eyes clamped shut. “Don’t worry, I’m here now.”_ _ _


	2. Spinning an empty bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said it'd be a quick update well guess what ya boi is a fucking liar and I'm so sorry. I've had a lot of really unavoidably sad and stupid nonsense going on and I've spent a good amount of that time trying to find ways to cope with what's coming my way. I also had to completely alter this chapter from what it originally was due to it not really being what I felt like the story needed. Anyway, if you're here you don't want to read my notes you wanna read this chapter so off you go and read it. Also this one is formatted slightly better which I am very proud of.

The rain had stopped without Ian noticing. What remained of the tremendous storm was merely the sparse dribble of droplets falling free from tree branches and roof slates. An overpowering stench of soaked tar had crept through the window like a tenuous animal; a harrowing contrast to the whiskey and sweat and cum that now seemed fictious and out of reach. Laying on a mattress with duvet but no bed sheets, Ian thought in silence. He’d kicked the blankets into a soft conglomeration by his feet. His phone sat silence and untouched upon his sternum. Morning was fast approaching and soon it would be here, invading the claustrophobic shit-show of a spare room in spears of bright yellow light. Sleep was therefore a finite thing that Ian doubted would find him.  


Half a bottle of whisky (at least) had left him with fingers pushed to his temples, attempting to control the way the room spun upside down and sideways. His orgasm had ripped the vitality from his bones and made it difficult to move. His thoughts however ran without restraint or rationality, diving in and through the night’s activities over and over again. They replayed without control and Ian could only close his eyes and with exhausted satisfaction observe over and over how be pulled Max apart.

* * *

There had been enough drops of whiskey split onto Max’s cheeks, chin, and chest to leave a heady scent that Ian could feel in every nerve. In this half-conscious state, he reached for two handfuls of messy brown curls to thread all ten fingers through. It felt more like muscle memory that anything, as if the fuckery that unfolded had already happened once before, and course it had. Though now, with Max breaking away from the grasp to pull Ian’s shirt off and near taking skin off with it, things had certainly changed. He took the chance to hold Max by the chin, turning his head to expose the downy skin between his ear and left shoulder. Tomorrow’s stubble had begun to break through and when Ian to look closely -he was-, he could track the marred skin where acne had once been. And of their shenanigans a year’s past there was no trace, no slither of evidence to show that Ian had ever touched his friend quite like this.

“It’s been a long fuckin’ year” Ian murmured, allowing each word to run down Max’s neck in warm puffs of air. “I think I remember how you like it though…” His lips wrapped around his jugular, grinning as his teeth barely scraped the surface. Max’s hands had taken to roaming Ian’s back to holding his hips, gripping the bone as if for life. He knew what was coming, waiting in anticipation with his eyes screwed shut and toes curling tight for Ian to simply _do something_. Though a year hadn't changed how Ian teased and he pulled away to face Max eye to eye. 

“You want me to bite you?” Ian asked, lavishing the way Max squirmed in a mix of arousal and agitation. The man beneath him nodded curtly, breath seemingly unable to escape his gritted teeth. Ian simply tsked. Max growled. 

“You gotta use your mouth, Maxime.” Ian removed his left hand from brown hair, ensuring a tight grip was still kept with his right. The trembling fingers of his now free hand were shoved into Max’s mouth, turning hot against the inside of a slick cheek. Max let out a gag of surprise that Ian felt through his fingertips and straight down to his cock. He pushed closer and harder with no space to move, catching his friend’s breathes within his own. 

“Or maybe I should fuck your mouth like you fucked George’s?” Ian had made the mistake of having expectations. Instead of being greeted with a willing mouth and tongue, he was pulling his fingers away fast with a gasp. They were spit slick, skin embedded with teeth marks. Max, heavy lidded with horniness, was grinning at the victory. What had been a light shower became a fierce downpour that rattled the windows and Ian could feel the same change within himself.

“Want to be a bitch? Fine, that’s how I’ll treat you then” Ian growled, pushing Max down hard with a hand on his neck. “Fine, that’s how I’ll treat you” He bit him with the same ferocity as the storm outside, leaving his reserve behind him. Beneath his teeth the skin resisted and buckled with bruises that would surely remain for days or even weeks. Max’s moan was loud and coarse. He twisted beneath Ian like a dying animal, grabbing him by the hips and grinding against him. He only trembled harder when Ian began to lick the wounded skin with rough strokes, unable to reproach the actions with weak limbs. 

“Please… Ian” Max struggled to speak even simple works. Ian let his neck fall free, face slick with saliva and drying quickly. 

“You haven’t even kissed me yet.” In response, Ian was pulled down and kissed. He should’ve predicted it really. Max gave it to him sloppily and desperately, biting his lips to let his tongue break through. It was a kiss that was asking for more. Ian moved the hand that wasn’t tightly grasped somewhere on Max to pull his shorts midday down his thighs and palm what he best assumed to be his cock. Regardless of the wank fodder that were the faces Max was pulling, Ian couldn’t break his gaze from the way his hand wrapped around his friend’s clothed dick. It was alien and strange and slightly terrifying despite being down half a bottle of whiskey. He rationalised that George had given a blowjob with little to no experience (though he couldn’t really claim that in true confidence) and hoped a hand-job took the same minimal experience not to fuck up. Ian returned his mouth to the other’s neck, relying on the persistent biting to compensate for his sloppy hand. 

“You’ve gotta stay still, Maxime. You’re squirming too hard” Ian insisted, words ending in a breathless laugh at how it only seemed to make Max squirm harder. 

“I’m gonna…” Max started in a voice that had turned dry with heaving breaths. Though he couldn’t finish his sentence Ian knew what he meant. It was the kicker that allowed him to slip his hand under the waistband of Max’s underwear and give him exactly what he needed, immediately feeling what he only assumed to be precum smearing on his knuckles. 

“You close, Maxime?” 

“Shut the fuck up, Ian” Max managed to spill onto a hurried breath before returning to his whining. “Fuck, fuck…. fuck.” Between each curse was a noise of desperation that Ian leaned close to feel hot against his ear. He’d taken to rutting against the other’s thigh in a half-starved manner, reaching with whatever hand wasn’t occupied (though at this point they were both shaking and cramped, stuck to Max’s skin as he were magnetic) to pull Max’s hair once again. Though all at once things felt like they were getting close to ending and Ian could feel with the tell-tale pins and needles in his toes that such an ending would not wait any longer. 

“Can I come on you, baby? ‘cause I’m going to” he panted. “Next time I’ll be coming into your pussy though.” The comment had crawled from him as if it had a life of its own, unrecognised by him and shameful. Nevertheless, it was such a comment that had Max tensing like a string abruptly pulled taunt and cumming in hot, hard spurts. A cramped mess of clenched fingers, Ian doubted his hand had elicited such a reaction and that perhaps the words alone had done the job. Though, after clumsily pulling out his cock and delivering a few deliberate strokes, Ian found himself coming somewhat unexpectedly across Max’s boxers and stomach with a startled groan; perhaps those words had affected him too. In a come down of numb limbs and slowed breathing, he dragged his fingers lazily through the puddles on Max’s stomach, running a drenched fingertip over the man’s flushed cheek. He whined, turning the cheek away. 

“Fuck off. That’s gross.” 

With his orgasm over Max shivered and squirmed at Ian’s hand still on him. His friend pulled away and allowed him to fall limp into the stacks of cards made worthless through the sweat and weight of two fools fucking. The smear of cum on his cheek shined and Ian felt that despite future successes, nothing would be as satisfying as the sight before him. Hickeys of red and bloody purple had begun to bloom along the expanse of Max’s neck; their size and number would make them a bitch to hide. Now, in the fading afterglow, the brutal attention Max had craved looked undeniably painful. Ian pressed a chaste kiss against the worst of them. Max squirmed again, hand coming to rub against the spot. 

“Was that, like, okay?” Ian asked. 

“Mm” Max said curtly. He sat up quickly with a pained expression and a hand on his stomach. 

“Are you sure? You look fucking disgusted” 

“Yeah. I’m…” He was already standing on shaky legs, ignoring the cum dripping down his belly. “Sick. I’m going to be sick.” Ian watched him go; there was a Pokémon card stuck to the back of his thigh. He listened to the clumsy, rushed journey to the bathroom. Max seemed to try to close the door, though the sounds of retching and splattering were all too audible. Ian casually tucked his cock back into his underwear and fell back, legs shaking with exhaustion. 

* * *

The first streaks of Monday morning had begun to slink through the dust-ridden curtains, chasing the night away. Between the fucking and overwhelming fatigue Ian had gradually made his way to the spare bedroom. He’d helped a too drunk Max find his bed, tucking him under the sheets before shutting the door behind him. Now there was quiet in the house that would only be broken when one of them got up to piss. Ian imagined he wouldn’t be seeing Max until the afternoon; he’d be wearing a blue dressing gown and hunched over the kettle, eyes crusted with sleep. Beyond that, he didn’t know what Max would say or do, particularly about what just occurred. Because of this, Ian lay in the shadow of the morning, thinking. His clothes, creased with sweat and flecked with cum, had been abandoned on the floor. He felt seventeen again; lamenting in his underwear at 4am.

Fear had gotten to work at weakening his confidence. Perhaps Max hadn’t wanted this after all. What had been so clear in the moment was now murky with uncertainty. He curled inward at the thought. The friendship between them was something Ian couldn’t verbalise but was nevertheless priceless. Perhaps it would be ruined now. 

Ian knew he should’ve waited to morning, discussed the situation with Max like the adults going onto their 30’s that they were. 4am made people do stupid things though, with Ian reaching for his phone and scrolling through contacts quickly. In the ambiguity of the night he knew with certainty who to call. 


	3. Surviving in Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is how to break a promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I had the formatting in check? Lol guess again I somehow cannot figure this shit out. Anyway, not much to say other than here it is. This chapter was primarily written on the shoulders of _In Tongues_. Thanks.

By the heat of the sun rays burning his calves, George assumed the time to be roughly around midday. Yesterday and today had become amalgamated into a single stretch of time by the night long search for a ten second sound bite that he’d remembered recording a few years ago that’d be perfect for a song he was (trying) to finish. Though come morning George was doubtful of whether it had ever existed in the first place. In the harsh light of the morning he’d considered sleep but found he’d reached the tranquil stage of sleep deprivation and decided to ride the feeling while it lasted. He had instead treated himself with a pot noodle and a cigarette on the hotel balcony.

 _This is really nice_ , George thought to himself. In reality, it was altogether shitty. His balcony was the size of a bathtub with flimsy railings separating guests from the seven story drop to a parking lot and an open dumpster. Someone had made a flimsy job of tagging the railings with their initials too; a janky O and what could’ve been an S or a Z. Beyond the car park, someone yelled without restraint. It must’ve one hell of a holler to be heard over the continuous crescendo of car horns and tire skids from the highway. George always seemed to find himself in the shitty hotels, though it more often felt like the shitty hotels found him. _Next time, no cockroach infested shitholes_ , George promised himself. Next time, not this. Places where you could hear your faceless neighbour fucking a girl from the bar downstairs were the perfect place to feel perfectly like shit and be reminded that you hadn’t fucked anyone in close to a year.

“Nope” George said aloud before shovelling an overflowing plastic fork of noodles into his mouth. “Not thinking about that shit. Fuck that.” He left the last dregs of the noodle soup be and used the nail of his thumb to press crescent moons into the styrofoam. It was a shitty distraction from the memories that resurfaced and brought with it sensations that were downright corrosive. 

_Max, lying on the floor to listen to George’s new material. Max, wearing only his boxers with a love bite on his chest. Max, insisting that lying down with his eyes closed was the only way to full embrace the music. Max, whose music taste was subpar but who insisted he hear what George was working on. Max, whose honesty was like sticking your head out the car window on a winter night. Max, whose voice came through the dark of the living room and pulled George over._

Max, who he hadn’t spoken to in a year. _Oh right, that’s why it’s corrosive, because I’m a flaking retard._ He hadn’t meant to lose contact, just like he hadn’t meant to take to smoking as a habit over a hobby. Regardless, he’d lost contact and was already reaching for another cigarette to lessen the physical discomfort made by his mistake. He took a hard drag and made sure to pull enough smoke to feel the burning in his lungs and throat; he had earned the discomfort. 

With a loud tapping, George startled. He looked to his side and saw the sound to be coming from his phone vibrating on the tiles. He shielded the screen with one hand and determined whether this was a call worth answering. It was. 

“Holy shit,” was the first thing George said. He could hear Ian laughing quietly over the line and the noise was downright contagious. Perhaps he’d just been starved of human interaction that went beyond common formalities at the 7 Eleven. Perhaps that was just what Ian did to him. “Fuck, man! Haven’t seen your name pop up on my phone for a while.” 

“You haven’t fucking called me.” 

“Fuck off, I’m busy. Also I texted you once and you ghosted me.” 

“Oh yeah” Ian replied, the sound of recognition and amusement in his tone. “Well, I’m busy too.” 

“How have you been?” George asked. 

“Yeah good. I’m in Australia right now” Ian said and George knew he should’ve recognised the distant sound of magpies on his end on the line. “I’m with Max.” George could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips and he transferred his cigarette to his lips before clenching them. Ian, ridiculous snarky fuckface Ian who had joined in on a threesome by pure accident had managed to keep contact with Max while George had not. 

“Nah, you just went to Australia to hang out with Chad. As if that’s not fucking obvious.” 

“You’re bitter as fuck.” Ian said. Of course Ian could tell. 

“I’m not bitter” George lied. “How’s Max going?” 

“Oh yeah, he’s fine. Still making shitty Pokemon videos and not uploading anything to his actual channel” George stubbed out his cigarette on the tiny concrete roads between the tiles. He listened to Ian’s update on Max as a thousand memories of that single warped month invaded his mind. It was too much thinking for a sleepless night and a hot Californian day. 

“Wait, it’s midday here. Must be what, 4am there? Were you filming or something?” 

“Urgh…” George could hear some uncertainty on the other line. “Not really. Max’s laptop shat itself and he lost like, all of his footage. That was at around midnight, I think.” “Fuck, that sucks. That never feels good.” George reframed from admitting that it had happened more than once to him. “So did you fix it, or did he?” 

“You know Max. He kicked the shit out of it and then made me drink with him to forget that he’d broken it.” The laugh that came from George was genuine but came from somewhere that ached. It hurt to be able to picture that scene action for action, word for word. Max was typical. Did that still apply after a year? 

“Classic Max.” Ian hummed in agreement. 

“Yeah, and after that… how do I put this without it sounding weird?” George breathed deeply. He knew where Ian was going before he even got there and gave him the prompt he needed. 

“What is it?” 

“Well, we kinda fucked too.” 

“Who?” The question was fucking pointless and futile but George asked the question to fill the quickly growing hole that had formed in his gut. 

“Max and I.” 

“When?” 

“Like, an hour ago” 

“Oh… Fuck!” 

“What?” 

“You just made me elbow over my pot noodle, you cunt.” George salvaged what noodle scraps and juice were left in the styrofoam cup, shaking off trembling hands drenched with soup. Shit, he needed to sleep. He needed another cigarette. He needed to dive off the balcony and land in the dumpster below. 

“Not my fault you’re eating noodles like a proper Jap” Ian insulted casually, as if he hadn’t just admitted he’d fucked their mutual friend. 

“So what do mean you ‘fucked’?” George tried for an air of disinterest though he was already lighting another cigarette with rushed movements. 

“Like I didn’t peg his ass or anything. We just gave each other hand-jobs. Or more like rubbing? I dunno. A bit of both I guess. I don’t think it would’ve happened if there wasn’t so much alcohol. Also, y’know, last year… not like this hasn’t happened before. It’s almost been a year since then” Not a year since he got on his flight and fucked off; it had been give-or-take a year since that night in the spare room. George knew exactly what he was referring to and almost wished he didn’t. Maybe it would’ve been better to have slept today and missed the call from Ian. Maybe it still wasn’t too late to bail on the conversation and crawl into sheets washed in bleach and bathed in dirty sunlight. Regardless, the fuck-around archive of images, words, smells, and sensations that George referred to as ‘Fucking Max’ would haunt him wherever he lay, be it getting sunburnt while on the phone with Ian or holding a pillow over his eyes. 

“You there George?” Ian sounded muffled on the end; George could imagine him making the call while lying on the mattress in the spare bedroom, glaring lights from the street peering through the curtainless window. Was the room as shitty as it was when he’d been in there with Max? (Knowing Max, definitely. Then again, did he know him anymore?) 

“Yeah, I’m here.” 

“What’re you doing right now?” 

“Eating lunch and talking to you. Going to go to sleep soon, I haven’t slept yet.” 

“Struggle sleeping?” 

“No, just working.” 

“You’re going to burn yourself out, man. You know what you should do?” George knew it was either going to be _suck a dick_ or _go fuck yourself_. Regardless, in exhaustion, he took the bait. 

“What should I do, Ian?” 

“You should come over.” At the proposition, George scoffed, taken aback by his tenacity. 

“I’m in California, Ian, not down the fuckin’ road. I can’t just up my shit and leave for Australia.” 

“Are you on tour or something, or just working on new shit?” 

“Working on the album and planning a collab.” He’d spent a whole day looking for a track that may not have existed in the first place. If there was progress, it wasn’t visible to the naked eye. 

“Well finish that collab, up your shit and work on the album here. Max has a spare room” 

“Yeah, the spare room you’re in and making smell like cum. Sure wanna be there.” 

“I’ve seen your dick, I don’t mind sharing a room.” George sighed. He was too tired for the level of banter that Ian was asking for, particularly when it touched on what he’d made sure to adamantly avoid. 

“Max misses you” Ian said, tone flat. George was quiet. It was worse than an insult and Ian surely knew that too. “I mean, he talks about you like nothing’s changed. He was talking about a skit where we put you in a dryer,” George scoffed ( _classic Max indeed_ ), “but you haven’t called him in close to a year, and I don’t think you’re that fucking retarded to not realise that he misses you.” George pressed his thumbs to his temples. _You’re a bastard, Ian._ “I don’t know the full extent of what happened last year,” mentioning last year as if that single night defined the whole year, “but suddenly you’ve fucked off and Max has to figure out his own reasons as to why you’re ghosting him while still acting like shit's fine” 

“You don’t need to tell me I fucked up” George said. 

“Yes I fucking do. I’m telling you that you fucked up so I can give you a solution.” The sigh that left George rattled painfully through his chest. Damn Ian. “So, here’s my suggestion. The way to remedy this problem of your own making is to get on a plane in the next three days and rock up to Max’s place.” 

“It’s not that easy. Don’t know how you got so retarded and forgot that.” 

“Stop making excuses and come over. Make up for the fact you fucked Max and then fucked off.” Ian spoke casually but his words were sharp and hurt to hear. “Anyway, I’m going to sleep, I’m exhausted.” 

“I’m not coming to fucking Australia, Ian.” 

“G’night, George. Love you” He hung up before George could get in another protest. He let his hand and the phone in it fall limp against his side, knocking over his pot noodle for a second time but making no move to correct it. He’d closed his eyes tight but the sun still burned through. That sleepless tranquillity he’d been feeling ten minutes before had devolved into nausea. His mouth had the texture and taste of a chalkboard while the air felt more suffocating than remedial with the heat. 

“Fuck.” He knew the memories he’d pulled up from the depths of his mind were made to be idyllic; sugar coated by his mind to layer over the fights, the vomit, the silent car rides to the airport. Though now even they seemed desirable in the way that Max was there. His fights with Max had made him sure to realise what was and wasn’t important in his life. Fucking Max was close to the same. And then I didn’t call him for months on end. Not even George could articulate the reason behind that. Trying now would probably end in him hunched over the toilet. 

George stood up too fast and the room was left turning sideways along with his stomach. He stumbled inside and shut the door behind him with a hearty slam, grabbing his laptop from its place on the bed and flipping it open. “Fuck!” Ian had already made his mind up for him. George was simply left to follow.


End file.
